Duke smiled at his son and waved him over. He came to his father obediently and tried not to fidget as Duke rebuttoned his top button and straightened his tie for the third time. The Christmas party was in full swing, and even though the senator had a strict “no shop talk” policy at the annual gathering, politics was never far from anyone’s lips.

A doughy beet-red man stopped to shake hands with Duke. Gibson was used to it. People were always interrupting to talk to his dad. His dad was important, and Gibson felt immense pride in the respect that everyone showed him. Yet as the two men spoke, Duke made the man feel like the center of the universe—asked after his wife and children by name and congratulated him on a recent triumph in the House. The man went away happy, and Duke turned back to his son.

“The day that man gets a call from me is the day I’m on fire, and he’s got the only hose for three states.”

Gibson laughed, even though he didn’t really understand the joke. He just liked when his father treated him like one of the guys. An insider. Duke ran his hand through his son’s hair, mussing it affectionately.

“Dad . . . ,” Gibson complained and straightened it with the flat of his hand.

“Where are the rest of the kids? You don’t need to hang out down here on the killing floor.”

“They’re all upstairs watching kids’ movies,” he said with disgust.

At ten, Gibson was in the midst of becoming wise beyond his years. His favorite movie was The Godfather Part II—not that the original was bad, but everyone knew that Part II was the superior film. According to his dad, John Cazale was the most underrated actor in movie history. Only ever made five movies, but I’ll stand those five against any five ever made, Duke had told him when they’d watched it together the first time.

That fall, Gibson had landed in the principal’s office for grabbing a classmate by the face, exclaiming, “I know it was you, Bobby, you broke my heart,” and kissing him violently on the mouth. Duke had laughed until he’d cried and halfheartedly told his son not to do it again. Gibson pointed out that nothing had disappeared from his locker since.

“Kids’ movies, huh? That sounds pretty rough.”

“The worst. What’s going on down here?”

“Just lining them up and knocking them down. These things are all about appearances, kiddo. Mark my words, there’s nothing phonier under heaven than a DC holiday party. The only honest words you’ll hear all night are the drink orders at the bar.”

“So why do it?”